Apricot Kisses (10 page)

“If you plan to close your restaurant, you could choose a safer way than torching its kitchen,” I mutter and let go of the pot handle before it burns me.

“For example?” is his preoccupied response. He pulls out another notebook from the pile on his right. The pile collapses and spills yet another paper avalanche across the floor.

“Well, you could poison your guests with spinach macaroni. Ribollita with frozen vegetables would also work in a pinch.”

“I already explained it was an accident. We don’t use frozen products,” Fabrizio says calmly—too calmly for my taste.

“You don’t?”

“What’s your problem, Signora Philipp?”

“No problem at all, Signor Camini. I’m just the kitchen help.” I bat my eyelashes, and Fabrizio frowns. If I were artistic, I could sketch that expression with my eyes closed by now. “And it looks like a pigsty in here. I didn’t think my first day of work would be filled with sorting papers and scrubbing the kitchen.”

Fabrizio studies me. “What exactly did you expect?”

Is it my imagination, or is a smile hiding somewhere in his eyes? I throw my arm to the stove. “I thought this was a trattoria. So how about cooking?”

“Cooking,” he says, giving me an almost suggestive once-over, “in
that
?”

“What’s wrong with my clothes?”

“You’re wearing high heels.” He straightens his legs and stands up.

“They’re slingback pumps.”

“Thanks for clearing that up. Your blouse also looks rather expensive, by the way.”

“And what exactly is your problem with it, Signor Camini?”

“I don’t have a problem, but you’ll have one.” Fabrizio shrugs, sweeps the papers from the counter, and heaves a bucket of onions onto it—a damn big bucket. “Since you suggested ribollita, Rosa-Maria will need onions, peeled and quartered.”

I stare at the container. It’s filled to the brim. “I’m supposed to peel onions? Don’t you have some help to do that?”

Fabrizio looks irritated. “The help is right in front of me. Or did you forget what we agreed?”

“There was no mention of slavery,” I retort. Fabrizio takes two steps toward me. The wrinkle in his forehead is so pronounced now that his heavy eyebrows are almost touching each other. I instinctively move away until my behind bumps against a cupboard.

“Well, signora: welcome to an Italian kitchen. Despite your erroneous assumption, vegetables are still prepared by hand here—your job. Furthermore, I own this trattoria, and you are my kitchen help for the next two weeks. If I want you to peel onions or scrub the stove, that’s what you are going to do—until your fingers bleed, if necessary. If that’s below you, well, you know the way out.”

“I do indeed!” I snap. Straightening my back, I march in the direction of his pointing finger. Unfortunately, my heels slip on the scattered papers, so I skid less than elegantly toward the door.

“You know where to find me if it starts to rain. And don’t forget to take my grandmother along,” he shouts after me in that mocking tone of his. I respond with a spontaneous gesture, not even turning around.

“So what if it rains—bite me! And your grandmother can shove it, too.”

Only when I’m back in my Cinderella chamber, cheeks still burning, do I realize in horror that I just gave Fabrizio Camini the finger.

Fabrizio

It must be jinxed. There’s not a corner in this damn house that I haven’t turned upside down, but Nonna’s recipe book is nowhere to be found. I did find another secret stash of cigarettes and sweets—thirty years too late. When we were kids, we’d never have guessed that she hid chocolate bars under a loose floorboard in the pantry. I pocketed the foil-wrapped bar but returned the box to its hiding place, as if I’d get in trouble if I didn’t.

Lucia looks up from the reservation book when I enter the restaurant. The shutters are still rolled down. One hangs crooked and the sun shines through a broken blade. Lucia has turned the reading lamp on and looks strangely forlorn at the front desk. But the wrinkles around her mouth smooth into a smile as soon as she sees me.

“You look like you’ve done something wrong,” she says.

I touch the bar in my pocket but shake my head. “I’m looking for Nonna’s notebook, the green one with the red ribbon. Have you seen it?”

Lucia looks at me over her reading glasses. “Isn’t it in the kitchen cupboard with all the others?”

“Hm.”

“So that’s a no? Why don’t you take one of the others? Nonna filled at least a hundred notebooks with recipes. I’m sure you’ll find what you want in one of them.”

“But I need the green book!” I sound harsher than I intended. Lucia seems irritated but shrugs it off and looks again at the reservations. Names fill the whole page. That’s unusual on an off-season weekday.

“I didn’t see it,” she says. “Were you in the kitchen? How is Hanna coming along?”

“Who?” I ask, and peer at the sideboard behind the bar. Nonna would definitely be capable of hiding the notebook among tablecloths and napkins.

“You’re kidding, aren’t you? Hanna Philipp, our new kitchen help. Hello?”

“She left.” Why does Lucia have to remind me, just when I forgot about that arrogant woman? I only hope she was decent enough to leave Nonna here. Otherwise I’ll have another problem.

“She what? What did you do to her, Fabrizio Camini?”

“I didn’t do anything to her. I’m not interested in an eccentric city girl’s moods. Signora Philipp had a choice, she chose, and that’s the end of it.” I pull on the uppermost drawer of the sideboard. It’s locked. Lucia is shaking her head.

“I don’t believe it!”

“Do you have the key for this drawer?”

“How is she eccentric, to use your word? What did you say to her?”

“She was going to work in high heels and a silk blouse.”

“What about a friendly suggestion and an apron?”

“Oh, I did make a suggestion. That’s when she told me I could kiss her ass. Now, do you have the key or not?”

“You’ll apologize,” Lucia says. I laugh out loud. That’ll be the day. “I know you, Fabrizio, and I know exactly what tone you used with her. You are going to apologize.”

“The key.”

“First, you’ll put things right with Hanna.”

“Come on, Lucia. The woman’s miles away by now.”

She looks at me silently. Then she buries her key chain deep in her apron pocket, quick as a flash, and lifts her chin. “In that case, you’ll have to get in the car and bring her back.”

Chapter Six

Fabrizio

After two cigarettes, I reach two conclusions. First of all, I should stop smoking. Second, you can’t win against a determined woman who has a key in her apron.

I kick an empty cola can across the yard. It clatters against the fountain and scares a few chickens. Vittoria puffs up her chest feathers and flutters toward the can with claws spread, as if she’s defending the other hens against a monster. I watch for a while as she battles the innocent can and decide to ask Paolo to finally turn the crazy beast into soup.

I crumple up the empty cigarette pack and pull out Nonna’s chocolate from my pants pocket. It’s soft, melted by my body temperature, and sweet.

I hear Nonna say,
“Bread for the body; chocolate for the soul. Remember that, Fabrizio.”

I’d rather you gave me a hint—where is that recipe that was supposed to make Tre Camini immortal, Nonna?
All right, all right. I’m exaggerating. I’d settle for unforgettable. I squish the rest of the chocolate around in my mouth and put the golden foil and the cigarette pack into the flowerpot on the windowsill—the witness to my sins.

Then I head out to find the second woman who managed to get me off course today.

I didn’t expect to find the guest room empty. Not sure what to do next, I peep into the wardrobe, as if Frau Philipp would have the ridiculous idea of hiding in it. Another remnant from my childhood—no wardrobe was ever safe from Marco when he came home from school with a bloody nose. Once, we searched for him for hours before finding him in Nonna’s hamper—folded up like a pocketknife, his face tear-streaked and snotty.

The wardrobe is empty except for a few hangers. For a minute I consider just forgetting about this woman
and
the sideboard key, but then I realize that I don’t see any trace of Nonna in the room, either. That’s when determination replaces my resignation. I slam the wardrobe door shut, fish the car key from my pocket, and hoof it to the truck.

Gravel flies in all directions as I back the pickup truck into the yard and turn it toward the driveway, which I drive down at walking speed. After narrowly escaping a car accident, Nonna hated nothing more than driving too fast. Soon I regret this old habit, since it ruins my chance to run over Vittoria, who’s blocking the iron gate. I brake and honk, but Vittoria calmly continues to peck at worms in the middle of the road. How in the world did she get from the yard all the way down here in fifteen minutes? I lower the window.

“Beat it, you stupid chick.”

Her comb seems to expand, and she clucks aggressively.

“Shoo, shoo!” I hiss and rev the motor, feeling stupid. Vittoria tilts her little head and eyes me. It’s almost eerie. She seems to be considering her next step. I honk—without results.

“Fine, I gave you a choice.” I shift into first gear and press down the gas pedal but don’t release the clutch. Unbelievable. I seem unable to actually run her over. But Vittoria’s bored of the game now. In her chicken universe, a soda can is apparently far more dangerous than a truck. She hops to the side of the road, cackling loudly, and I finally shoot out of the gate. I watch her flutter her wings in the rearview mirror. That’s what you get when you name your food. I need another cigarette.

I almost faint when I turn back to the road ahead of me. Slamming on the brakes again, I manage to stop just inches away from the yellow Ford Transit. The breath escaping my lungs sounds like a bike’s inner tube after a nail puncture.

“Hey, Fabrizio! Is the devil chasing you, and are you planning to take your truck to hell with you?” a clear voice rings out. Ernesto Zanolla is sitting on a stone marker at the side of the road, with a sandwich bag on his knees and a thermos in his hand.

“Why would you park in the middle of the street to eat breakfast?” I bark through the window. The shock throbs all the way to my toes. Ernesto grins, takes a large bite of salami, and lifts the cup to his thick lips.

“Careful what you say, or I’ll tell Carlo that you ignore the speed signs.”

“What speed signs, Signor Ma-a-a-yor?” I stretch out his title on purpose—I want my answer to drip with sarcasm. When they repaved Via Capelli, the town coffers were so empty they could hardly pay for the asphalt. Not a cent was left for traffic signs. It was a personal defeat for Ernesto, and his idea to print cardboard signs didn’t bring him much glory, either. They vanished in the last rains.

“Don’t insult an official, my son. Besides, the mayor’s shift doesn’t start until this afternoon.”

“Well, then I can’t insult him, can I?”

“Mail carriers are civil servants, too.” Ernesto taps his mailman’s cap, looking like a ten-year-old allowed to play with his father’s electric trains for the first time. “Do you want a panino? I’ve one left, with pancetta.”

“Thanks, but I’m in a hurry.” I glance down the street. No trace of Signora Philipp.

“What’s the matter with today’s young men? Not one of them has time to chat a little with an old man.” Ernesto takes a sip of coffee and swishes it around in his mouth. “Shouldn’t you be in the kitchen with
bella
Rosa? The restaurant’s open, isn’t it? Rita will kill me if she can’t prance around in her new dress tonight. The times we live in . . . One click, and a dress from Milan arrives at the door. And who pays for it? Poor Ernesto.” He pretends to look worried.

“Did you see a woman with a rolling suitcase, by chance?” I’m sure the Signora Kiss-My-Ass couldn’t have walked far in half an hour. Ernesto chews thoughtfully.

“A pretty woman?”

I shrug. “Just a woman. Late twenties.”

“That’s the best description you can come up with?” Ernesto snorts.

“About five foot seven, slim, short black hair, long nose, and green eyes. Like a mermaid. Happy?”

Ernesto’s eyes flash. “Ah, Signora Hanna. Why didn’t you say so right away?”

“You know her?” I pretend to be surprised, but I’m actually not. Signora Philipp makes an impression.

“Great girl! She likes to talk, but always seems to be in a hurry as well.” Ernesto sighs and scratches his head. “She reminds me of someone, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

“I didn’t ask
how
she is, but where she is.”

“Did you lose her?” Ernesto tilts his head. “You don’t run into a woman like that too often—especially not at such an appropriate moment.” He winks, obviously amused by his sly reference. “What did you do to annoy her, you fool?”

“Ernesto, all I want to know is whether you’ve seen her. If you plan to bring your wife for dinner tonight, stop giving me rambling explanations.”

Now we’re finally getting somewhere. If there’s one person who can rattle our good mayor, it’s his wife. Rita Zanolla. She has a sharp tongue, that woman.

“Well, I certainly saw her yesterday.”

“And today?”

Ernesto doesn’t answer but thoughtfully starts to pick his teeth with his thumbnail. So I have no choice but to head to the Amalfi bar. Hanna can’t have made it past our village innkeeper without being forced to down his infamous espresso. No nonlocal ever does. I wave Ernesto away and put the truck in reverse so I can drive around his dilapidated vehicle. The passenger side scrapes against a juniper bush that almost reaches the road. I need to tell Paolo to trim it. Ernesto finishes his dental hygiene, stretches, and yawns widely, revealing several gold teeth.

“Say hi to Salvatore. And if you find Signora Hanna, bring her to the town hall. I owe her a meal.”

Hanna

“You can come out now. He’s gone.”

I fight my way through the prickly juniper bush, feeling embarrassed. A grinning Ernesto watches me struggle with my suitcase. The truck came so fast down the driveway that my only escape was to push the suitcase and myself into this horrible hedge. I hope nothing happened to Giuseppa.

“I guess you finished your little matter at Tre Camini?” Ernesto asks me when I finally stand next to him, totally out of breath.

“I did,” I say, and remove some juniper needles from my hair.

“The little matter doesn’t seem to have been pleasant.”

I look at him sideways, trying to figure out if he’s making fun of me, but he just studies the road ahead with a straight face.

My anger dissolves as quickly as it overcame me.

“Oh, Ernesto.” Exhausted, I plunk down onto the grass-covered shoulder of the road.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” says Ernesto. “That bad?”

“Do you have a job for me?”

“I understand.”

For some strange reason his empathy is comforting, even though he has no idea what I’m talking about. I don’t know myself why this Fabrizio gets so far under my skin. Not even Daniel could make me mad like that, and we were in a relationship, albeit a brief one. I pull out a blade of grass and chew on it.

“How well do you know Signor Camini, Ernesto?”

“I’ve known both of them since they were that high.” Ernesto holds his hand against his hip. “They were up to no good and always looked out for each other. But that’s not what you are interested in, is it?”

“Not only,” I mumble.

“Fabrizio is a good guy. His heart’s in the right place.”

“That’s hard to believe.”

“Are you sure that he’s your problem?”

I look up in surprise. “What makes you think I have a problem?”

“You already looked sad yesterday.”

Did I? But I’m not at all—sad. I’m furious. At least I was until five minutes ago.

“You see, Signora Hanna, I have no idea what happened between you and Fabrizio. But I have got eyes, and I see two unhappy people. The question is”—Ernesto pauses, looking for the right phrase—“whether that makes any sense?”

“Whether it makes sense to be unhappy?”

“You’re a fast learner.”

But I don’t actually understand.

“Today’s young people overcomplicate their lives,” Ernesto says. “They want to know all, see all, and be all. They turn this way and that because there are opportunities everywhere. It makes them dizzy, and soon they can’t see the forest for all the trees. All they need to do is take the path that leads them to their goal. Did your path bring you to your goal, Signora Hanna? If it did, I’ll take you to the village. I had your pretty car towed to Stefano Gosetti’s garage. But if the answer is no, you should take your suitcase and go back to Tre Camini.”

Only after an eternity of listening to the birds twitter and insects buzz does it strike me that my mouth is wide open. I’ll be damned—a philosophizing mail carrier.

I slowly get up, taking extra time to beat the dust from my pants. Is it really that simple? I imagine Claire gratefully wringing her hands—and Lucia begging me with her eyes. Besides, I took Giuseppa with me. It seemed logical at the time, since apparently she wasn’t welcome there, either. But now, the urn is a good reason to rethink my hasty departure—and not just because I don’t have a mantelpiece. Unsure, I look at the cypress-lined driveway leading back to Tre Camini.

“I believe there’s some work waiting for me up there,” I finally say, sighing loudly.

“That’s what I thought.” Ernesto empties his thermos, crumples up his sandwich bag, and stands up.

“All right, so I’ll go back.” I turn around in slow motion. Unfortunately, Ernesto doesn’t object, like I’d hoped he would. All I hear is the squeak of his car door as he gets in. I stop.

“Ernesto, Fabrizio addressed you as Signor Mayor. Didn’t you tell me that you’re the mailman?”

Ernesto sticks his head out the window as the van starts. He has to shout to drown out the rattling of the diesel engine. “I’m whatever is needed most at any given time, Signora Hanna. Mail carrier, mayor, and bank manager. Sometimes even a doctor”—he taps his chest meaningfully—“for this.”

Fabrizio

Salvatore Bertani, known as Salvi, used to be an overweight and unhappy boy who was quick on the comeback only with his fists. At the end of
scuola primaria
, he got a below-average evaluation from our village teacher, a grumpy man who suffered from insomnia and acid reflux. The teacher actually thought Salvi was intellectually challenged, though he wasn’t allowed to say so. For what he did report, old Bertani paid him a visit and bulldozed the way for his son to move up to the next level. Since the Bertanis also had good connections with the mayor’s office, the teacher eventually took old Bertani’s advice and retired early rather than face an inquiry for incompetence.

So we children had Salvi to thank for a new teacher, a redheaded gazelle whose name sounded like ice cream, standing at the blackboard at the end of summer vacation. She assigned her snub-nosed daughter a seat in the front row for reasons we figured out only eventually. But everything was clear to Salvatore Bertani from the very beginning. The moment he saw little Concetta Fragoletti, his life changed completely.

Concetta is a Bertani today, like her husband and their five redheaded Bertanis whom nobody can tell apart and who continue the old boyhood battles in the winding little streets of Montesimo. The large and unhappy boy turned into an oversized man, but one who leaves unhappiness to those who drown their sorrows at his bar.

Salvi’s upper arms, which are the size of my thighs, fascinate me. He is polishing wineglasses as if he were fastening wheel rims with a screwdriver, and with every circle of the dishcloth the underside of his arm wobbles back and forth.

“Tell me, Salvi, do you go to the tanning salon?” I ask. He’s as predictable as a Swiss watch, and I know it will annoy him. He considers men who frequent such establishments gay. In his opinion, that’s also true about men who drive at a low RPM, eat vegetarian, and find the culture section of the
Gazzetta
more interesting than the sports section. Salvi stops his triceps exercise and looks at me indignantly.

“Has it been so long since you’ve been here that you’ve forgotten how many sons I sired, Camini?” His bass reverberates through the room, off the stained linoleum floor and the photo-covered walls. The previous owner made Salvi promise never to use nails on the ugly but antique tiles on the walls. As I understand it, Concetta glued on the pictures when Salvi was once sick with the flu. His own decoration ideas for the cavernous space were limited to the artificial palms and plastic furniture.